Cold Dining
by tklivory
Summary: Zevran was betrayed by the woman he loved before the corpse of the Archdemon had a chance to cool. Now, years later, he has a chance to confront her... once the dish is chilled properly.


_This story takes place a couple of years after the Fifth Blight, in which The Warden manipulated Zevran to ensure that he stayed around, then betrayed him to the Crows at the first opportunity after the Archdemon was dead._

_The Warden became Chancellor, put a puppet king Alistair on the throne, exiled Anora to Gwaren, and settled down to be the real power in Fereldan, and, someday, beyond._

_Zevran barely escaped with his life - eventually - and he is not happy... _

_**MATURE RATING WARNING!** Some very, very not-nice things happen ahead... If you have a problem with reading about torture or violence, either to animals or humans, then please do not read, or at least, don't complain that you weren't warned..._

_As for the title, just remember what dish is best served cold..._

_.~^~._

_._

_._

**Cold Dining**

.

.

.~^~.

Zevran moved through the darkness of the Palace, easily evading the complacent guards. He was dressed entirely in black leather, his hair and face dyed black with coal and coal paste. His right hand held a small, poisoned dagger, and his left carefully conveyed a small bag full of _surprises_. His lips pulled back into a rictus of a grin as he slipped down the corridor where the royal apartments lay. _Tonight, it begins._

He knew that, by now, the 'letter' from the 'Crows' had arrived at the pre-arranged location, and Chancellor Marion Cousland now rested secure in the knowledge that the_ evil assassin_ was not only dead, but had perished in a suitably horrific fashion. The letter had been quite cathartic to write - he had simply imagined all the actions described within to have been performed on _her _tender, fragile body rather than his own.

He suppressed a snarl as he recalled the particularly lurid details in the letter regarding the removal of his facial tattoo - with a knife - before his final gasping breath at the hands of the Maestro._ Perhaps her hair..._ he mused as he lightly thumbed the edge of his dagger._ Yes, she was always so proud of it, as I was of my tattoo. _His fingers reached up and traced the thick, shiny scar that now marked his face where once curved lines had danced. _Yes, her hair would make an adequate first sacrifice for such a loss, I think._

It had taken him several weeks following his escape to hunt down and kill the Crows who had been tasked with warning the Chancellor of his imminent return to Denerim, and several days beyond that to finally extract the information he needed from the one still breathing so that he could plant his false message. He had also learned that Marion had, indeed, taken the Crows up on their offer, and had fulfilled some contracts on their behalf. His brow furrowed as he approached the door of the King's chamber, keeping to the shadows as he analyzed the two slightly sleepy guards standing outside the door._ I wonder if Alistair is even aware that his erstwhile lover and Chancellor is responsible for the lovely Alfstanna's fatal tumble down a flight of stairs during her last visit here..._ He had it from the Crow's lips, however, that it had been no accident...

In silence he knelt and settled his bag upon the floor, manipulating it to be open even as he sheathed his dagger into the small sheath resting in the small of his back. He again looked at the guards, gauging their chainmail and the gaps presented by it. _How fortunate for me the guards are practical rather than showy - far less armor to make a noise when they hit the floor._ He extracted two small knives, sighted carefully, and let fly. As intended, the bodies rocked backwards against the wall and slumped, making some noise but not an extreme amount. He reached in the bag again, extracting a garrote before slinging the bag over his shoulder and advancing upon the now unguarded door. As he quietly opened the portal, he smiled tightly and wondered how long it would be before Marion returned from the Pearl to find matters at the Palace well out of her control.

He glanced inside, relaxing when he heard the familiar snoring._ I once called you friend... but then I once thought I cared for Marion, as well. Ah, how matters have changed between us, Alistair._ He approached the bed and stood at its side for a few moments, looking down at the man he knew to be but a puppet. _And how willingly you fell into her clutches._ He grimaced. _Just as I did, once upon a time._ He gripped the garrote in both hands before he leaned over and whispered,_ "Alistair."_

The King started awake, eyes widening as he saw the face so close to his. _"You!"_ he whispered hoarsely. Zevran watched his expression as Alistair quickly moved from surprise through confusion and finally settled upon fear. "You're alive!"

That... _hurt. _ Not "Thank the Maker!" and a hint of relief. No, _fear_ that he was alive, that he had survived Marion's treachery. Zevran felt his face settle into an implacable expression, causing Alistair to flinch back. The human started to surge out of bed, away from Zevran, towards the sword resting upon the weapon stand so tantalizingly close to the bed.

The assassin's hands snapped forward, settling the garrote around the man's neck, the small solid ball perfectly placed over the prominent bump of the voice box. The maneuver only worked against the man's superior strength because of surprise and leverage, and he quickly and expertly twisted until Alistair fell bonelessly onto the bed. He sought and found a weak, unsteady pulse and nodded to himself. Speaking softly to the man he had once considered a compatriot, if not a friend, he murmured, "Part of me wishes I could regret what I am about to do to you." As he reached into his bag and withdrew the vial of acid and the small serrated blade used to apply it, he shook his head as memories of the last two years filled his head. "A very _small_ part."

One hour later, the acid half gone, he stoppered the bottle and placed it back into the bag. As he cleaned the blood from the knife, he surveyed his work. The man's voice came out in a rasp from the crushed voice box, and blood covered his skin in rivulets, saturating the bedclothes beneath him. The Warden-turned-King had long ago given up begging voicelessly for mercy and withdrawn into a mindless state of grunts and whimpers, trying to curl limbs covered with ragged cuts laced with acidic burns.

He stabbed the serrated blade next to Alistair's neck, deep into the pillow, deliberately slicing one last non-lethal cut down the man's jawline. _My first warning, Marion: _no one_ is safe from me. _He removed his hand, leaving the knife where it was. He gathered his bag, again slinging it over his shoulder, then turned and quietly left the room, leaving behind the shivering wreck of a man who had once stood at his side as a fellow warrior, if not also a friend, and now was just another target in his vendetta of vengeance.

He smiled harshly. _And now, for the second warning._

Making his way in the shadows down to the stable, he hefted his bag once more when he heard the sounds of the Mabari snores. He readied the special bomb he had prepared for the event, then quietly entered the stable full of sleeping animals.

As he had suspected, Marion's Mabari had pride of place in the stables, garnering the coveted central stall - away from the door to avoid drafts in the winter, but close enough to get a good breeze in the hot summer days. As he approached, the animal - _it is far easier to think of him as such_ - awoke and looked up. Recognizing Zevran, he rose to his feet and trotted to the elf, his little stump of a tail wagging in greeting. Zevran patted him woodenly on the head, then wrapped his fingers around the collar and led him out of the stable. When they were outside, he turned and threw the bomb inside, then turned and knelt in front of the Mabari at his side.

Reaching behind him, his hand closed around the hilt of the poisoned dagger. The animal in front of him barked happily, remembering the games of fetch they had played during the Blight. Zevran faltered as a small part of him, the part that had believed in the hope offered by Marion during the Blight when she had first spared him, felt regret as he watched that little stump of a tail wag happily and the dog's mouth gape open in a canine grin. Then another memory intruded, of a Crow holding up the point of an elf's ear, the torn side ragged, and Zevran's remaining whole ear twitched. "Your death will be clean, little one," he promised quietly as his free hand reached out and gripped the collar once more. "I could wish that you had a better mistress, but then, I could also wish that the past two years had never happened."

The dagger whipped out of the sheath and struck home. _If wishes were fishes..._

Later, covered in blood, he looked down at his handiwork, any thought of personal redemption now dead as well. Grasping the large brown skin, he walked to the entrance of the stable full of dying Mabari and laid his burden flat upon the door. Using the dagger already in his hand and two from the bag, he anchored the fur upon the stable door. _My second warning, Marion: not even the _innocent_ will protect you from me. _He glanced back at the flesh and bones that lay in a heap behind him on the ground and dismissed them out of hand.

He walked to the nearby water trough, welcoming the shock of cold water after such dirty work. he glanced up at the sky, using the almost new moon to gauge the time remaining in this night. _Two hours before the sun rises._ He shrugged, then picked up his bag and swung back to the palace, this time making his way to the apartments of those who were not quite noble, but not quite servants either. Smiling tightly in anticipation of his next target, he fought the urge to whistle a small tune.

There were no guards in this part of the Palace outside of easily evaded and sleepy patrols. _Ah, poor Alistair, is there no-one who looks in on you to raise the alarm? Tsk, and here I thought you were loved by the people._ He reached his intended destination and slipped inside, silently closing the door behind him. He smiled as he saw the lovely redhead on the bed. _A bard, now... this _may_ be more challenging than a mere Warden King. Pity that such loveliness must be sacrificed. _He paused only long enough to remove a prepared cloth from his bag, then quietly set his satchel down and moved to the side of the bed.

Her eyes fluttered open as he approached, her mouth opening to sound the alarm. Quickly he pressed the rag over her face, waiting for the struggling to stop before releasing her to lay, oblivious, on the bed. He tossed the rag to the side and went to fetch his bag once more. _You have grown complacent, my dear. During the Blight I never would have been able to come upon you unawares in such a fashion. _Dropping the bag onto the bed, he quickly arranged her limp form to his liking, then withdrew the thin ropes from his bag and set to work, trussing her like a nug ready to be slaughtered. As he placed the gag over her bow-shaped mouth, he mused, _She told you that you were safe, just as she told me I was free. Ah, how the lies come back to haunt her._

He withdrew a long rope from the bag and walked to the window, throwing the shutters open. Glancing down, he saw the patiently waiting trio of men with whom the arrangement had been made. Waving to them, he set the rope around his shoulders and threw the end to them. Two of them quickly clambered up to the room, the third maintaining the lookout for the guards that were not there.

The first one, the taller of the two, looked at the unconscious bard. "This the one?" he asked in a heavy Orlesian accent.

Zevran nodded. "I understand there is a reward?"

"Once we verify her identity," the second man said, his Orlesian accent much less noticeable. He walked over to the bed, reached down, and ripped open her shirt. His hand roughly moved over her breasts before his fingers found the long scar he was looking for. He nodded to his companion. "This is the one we want. Pay him."

The tall man shrugged, reached into his tunic, and took out a small bag that jingled. "Here you go," he said disdainfully, tossing the bag towards Zevran. Dismissing the elf out of hand, he took up Leliana's body and hauled it to the window. Looking down, he grunted and tossed her to the man waiting below as if she were a sack of meat.

_Easier to think of her that way,_ Zevran reminded himself. _Easier by far._

The shorter man had been watching him, a considering look on his face. "Heard you were companions once, or some such." His eyes flicked over the elf's ragged half-ear, the shiny scar running down the side of his face, and the permanent black circle of necrotic flesh that encircled his neck from the rope the Crows had used to restrain him for weeks, even months, at a time. "Never pleasant to have a falling out." Zevran only held out his hand, demanding the remainder of his payment. The bard shrugged, then put the promised piece of paper in his hand. "You'll forgive me if I say I hope I never see you again." He looked into Zevran's eyes and at the blood-covered black leather the elf wore, then grunted as he moved to the window. "Somehow, I don't think that will be a problem."

Zevran waited until they were well away with their cargo, ignoring the slaps and thuds as they began their own _treatment_ of her, then pulled the rope back up the window, coiled it, and went back to the bed. He unfolded the paper the man had given him, reading it quickly to confirm it said as he had anticipated, then set it on the bed. _Ah, Marion, you never even suspected that _she_ betrayed you. You thought you had her wrapped around your little finger, one of your little coterie of lovers._ He looked at the seal of the Divine on the paper he had placed on the bed. _Well, then, here is my final warning to you: there is _no one_ you can turn to. No one you can trust._

He took up the bag once more, withdrawing one final object: another piece of paper, wrapped around a bloodied, blond braid of hair that had once rested next to the curved lines on his face. This piece of paper had only one word on it: _Soon_. He tossed that onto the bed as well. _Just to make sure you know who has done this, my dear. I want you to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am coming for you. I do not wish you to _fear_ me, oh no... I wish you to live in _terror.

_Just as I have..._

As he left the Palace, the first alarm was being raised. He grinned and chuckled to himself as he slipped into the shadows. _Soon, my dear. _That_ is a promise._

She fled, of course, just as he had anticipated. The Landsmeet knew who to blame for the comatose King, the mysterious disappearance of an Orlesian agent, and the death of all the finest Mabari in the realm. Rumors spread faster than she could contain them, and now all the other whispers once again rose, gently aided by Antivan cunning: her almost nightly visits to the Pearl, her questionable relationship with Arl Vaughan, the almost weekly dispatch of the guard to the alienage to quell food riots, the increased taxes with no obvious benefit, and the strange deaths of several women who had grown close to either Alistair Theirin or Fergus Cousland.

He followed her, watching the terror build with _immense_ satisfaction.

First she headed to Amaranthine, but Zevran's earlier visit there ensured that she found no welcome from the Orlesian Warden-Commander that had been placed because she had been 'too busy' to attend to her Warden duties. Failing that, she fled to Highever, only to be turned back at the gate by an enraged Fergus Cousland, who held in his clenched fist a copy of the fulfilled assassination contract - complete with the name of the assassin who had brought down the mark - for Bann Alfstanna, his late betrothed. Desperate, she turned to Orzammar, but Bhelen turned her away at the gates, refusing to waste his time when he had so many deshyrs to kill himself.

Day after day, he saw her become more erratic. Her plans and power were in disarray, her friends had become enemies, and she walked alone where once she had had several friends at her side. She ceased sleeping through the night and started awake at every little noise, met each person on the road with obvious and painful suspicion, and in general turned from a clever, beautiful, self-possessed noble into a fearful, dull refugee from justice.

One night, when her exhaustion finally caught up with her so abruptly she literally fell in the middle of the road into a deep sleep, he smiled. _Ah, _now_ you understand something of what you did to me._ While she was unconscious, he approached her body and, as promised, removed her hair, leaving it in ragged piles around her body. Her terror, when she awoke and ran blindly forward, desperate to get _away_, was so tangible it was like the soothing caress of a lover's hands to his psyche. When next she collapsed, several days later, on the side of the road, he cut off her armor, broke her weapons, and stole her money. Several days after that he watched, dispassionately, as a group of bandits, following some instructions left for them in an anonymous note, decided to use her for their own pleasure over the course of several weeks before releasing her with only the clothing on her back and enough food and water to get her to the nearest farm.

It was only when she stood on a cliff overlooking the Waking Sea, ready to take that final step, that he finally approached her.

Leaving the shadows, he settled himself a few feet behind her and said softly, "Marion."

She shuddered, then slowly turned to him. Her left eye had never fully recovered from what the bandits had done to her and now looked permanently off to the side, and her hair - the little of it that had grown in - was half white, a far cry from the rich glossy black that it had been. "Satsified?" she said in a hoarse voice.

"Not _quite_ yet," he said. He approached her slowly, getting an intense sexual satisfaction from watching her breath speed up and her pupils dilate with fear. As he stood in front of her, he reached up and cupped her chin with one hand, then pulled her down for a long, lingering, drawn out kiss. He explored the scent of fear, the sweat of terror, and the faint, oh so faint, odor of hope that arose in her as he pulled back and met her eyes.

"_Now_ I am," he whispered to the slight shiver of hope, then pushed her over the edge. A few seconds later, the sound of something hitting the water echoed up the cliff.

_Pity she did not cry out,_ he mused. _That would have been _perfection.

He looked at the bag in his hand, the one he had carried for so long that he almost could not remember a time without it. The contents had dwindled steadily during the past few weeks, but he had retained it despite the fact that it currently barely contained anything save for a few scraps of food. _Ah, my last, most faithful companion, we shall end this together, no?_

He looked to the sunset, and smiled. With a final sigh, he stepped forward onto the air, following her one final time.


End file.
